


Coughs and Sneezles spread Diseasles

by MountainRose



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arc Reactor, Fluff, Gen, Sick!Tony, Steve and Bruce have got him covered, Tony Stark makes bad decisions, coughs and colds, makes things hard for Tony, poor guy, tiny!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:14:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainRose/pseuds/MountainRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony gets a cough. He is, as ever, rather dramatic about it. </p>
<p>Birthday fic for a lovely friend of mine; Natasha, this is for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coughs and Sneezles spread Diseasles

 

It starts out as a few coughs the day after the mission. Tony's aware that he has a crappy immune system and knows how to deal with the sniffles and colds, thank you very much. He was expecting it after the double whammy of icy cold conditions and civilian duty; he always had to lift his faceplate on civi-watch and the sheer _number_ of pathogens in a crowd of people pretty much guaranteed he'd catch _something._

Usually, it would boil down to locking himself in the temperature-controlled workshop with a big crate of smoothie ingredients but Steve's got this thing about abusing his emergency access if Tony's been in there for more than thirty six hours. Whatever, call it Captains privilege. Point is, Tony has no idea how to handle the _Avengers._ There's no way he'll have kicked this bug before Steve turns up, it's viral, so no quick-fix antibiotics. Less likely to get pneumonic, but small comfort when he feels like he’s been run over by a bus.

So by the time he can’t hide it anymore, he’s got three options as he see’s it:

One, cancel Steve’s access codes, risking all hell on the other end and having to explain himself to Steves ridiculous face.

Two, go to bed and hope no one notices that Pepper isn’t in there with him.

Three, piss the Avengers off _so hard_ that they leave him alone for at least three days. Or at least make his cold seem ridiculous and nothing to worry about.

...

So, those all suck.

In the end, he goes for ‘whine so vehemently about being sick, that no one really worries about it’.

He’s pretty confidant, given that everyone expects Tony Stark to be a spoiled, over-indulged brat, and wonders into the kitchen with a handful of tissues and a morose expression.

“ _Bwuuuuucee,_ I’ve got a cold...” Tony whines, slumping melodramatically against the kitchen counter.

“Keep your germs off the food preparation surfaces then,” Little Big Green mutters back, looking up only briefly.

Tony flops across the kitchen, then slouches in the doorway to the fridge, fishing out oranges and spinach and ... is that celery? It might be celery, it’s kinda pink, and he dumps it on the counter.

“Tony, stop. Just... Here. Sit.” Bruce pushes him into a chair, but he doesn’t particularly feel like staying there; his chest is claggy and moving about feels good. Also, likely to stop Bruce worrying about him. He peers over Bruce’s shoulder to find him making a low-fructose smoothie using unrefined potato starch and amylase on top of Tony’s usual greens.

Science, gotta love it.

He sniffs obnoxiously and completely unnecessarily in Bruce’s ear, then gives him a squeeze for good measure and wanders off towards the living room while the blender goes off behind him. A cough catches him by surprise in the hall, and he covers his mouth with his handful of tissues. He doesn’t manage to cough anything up before his ribs start to ache from jarring against the reactor; its harmless, but god is it uncomfortable. He manages to suppress the tickle long enough to clear his throat in a more controlled way, and staggers into the living room.

He slouches the rest of the way to the nearest sofa and buries himself in Natasha’s afghan. Steve has one too, on the armchair, but Tony’s saving that for later. He lasts minutes before  he’s up again, the blender hasn’t even stopped blending, because he’s uncomfortably restless and disliking the sleepy feeling he’s getting from being wrapped up warm. It’s too nice, he doesn’t trust it; if he falls asleep, he’ll stop breathing properly and wake up with a lungful of mucus to cough up.

Bruce calls out from the kitchen, wondering where he's gone off to, and he sneezes pathetically in reply. Bruce laughs at him. Rude.

But, for all that his plan seems to be working, Bruce still hand delivers the nutrient-heavy smoothie and makes him sit on the couch while he drinks it.

“You got a temperature?”

“Am I, or am I not, made up of atoms in a universe that obeys the laws of Thermodynamics?”

“You say that sitting next to me, so, no.”

Tony grumbles, because they STILL haven’t figured out where the extra mass comes from. “No, no I do not ‘have a temperature’, what am I, five?”

“Fine, be that way. JARVIS, does he have a fever?” Bruce asked the media centre.

“ _Thirty eight point one, Dr. Banner_ ,” JARVIS answered, while Tony muttered imprecations under his breath.

“UGH. I’m dying! Burning up!” Tony flaps a hand at his forehead, scowling with the force of the sarcasm.

“No, you’re not,” Bruce replies, implacable and strangely amused. This is not how this is supposed to go. Has he just _lost_ his ability to irritate? He doesn’t know if thats a good thing in the long term or not, but it’s not part of his plans right now. His childish expression fades for a bit and he stares off to one side; he actually feels pretty terrible, he just wants to be left alone, but he knows they won’t go away, and he’s given himself away as sick, so even if he changed strategies and went on a business trip that was more ‘busy’ than ‘trip’, they’d send him with an escort and that sentence really got away from him.

He blinks in consternation and leans away from Bruce, who is all up in his face for reasons he can’t quite grasp.

“Alright Tony, you need to get some sleep. Come on.”

“Nope, strange danger! I feel threatened!” He whines, tucking his hands into Natasha’s blanket so Bruce can’t pull him up by them.

“You want me to get Cap? ‘cause I will, and he will sit on you until you sleep.”

Tony glares up at him, because; no. His skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off his back and onto the back of his head, it’s so hypersensitive. In fact, his clothes are starting to get impossible. He is wearing silk and wool; this is not supposed to happen.

“Do not get Cap. I am staying right here and infecting you all with my iron germs,” Tony grouches, pulling his head down into his blankets and rubbing his back against the inside of his shirt, because _oh god the label._

Bruce’s hands are deliciously cool as the pull his head forwards and dip under his collar. Tony could go for more of that... He fishes the label out for Tony, and rubs the pads of his fingers over the base of his neck. Tony, predictably, melts. “Oh my god, don’t stop doing that. Not ever... I will pay you in donuts to do that for the rest of the week...”

Bruce has the temerity to chuckle at him, and _still takes his hand away_. Tony may be whining. That is a very whine-like noise coming out of his mouth right now. “Bruce, buddy, pal, bro, where are you going, no, come back...”

Tony sighs heavily at Bruce’s retreating back, falling over sideways onto the couch. It’s quiet, and it’s what he wants, but Bruce is gone, and now it feels cold instead of peaceful. Tony grumbles and rolls over, off the couch, and to his feet. He stands there, swaying for a second, then wanders off, no real destination in mind, but feeling cold and vaguely apprehensive.

He makes it as far as the morning room, which is in the shadow of the landing pad at the moment, and then stops to hack up a lung. He runs out of air halfway through, and his brain stops listening to his eyes, so he goes almost blind, then his knees go weak, and he leans against the wall before he falls to an ignoble death on the marble.

Warm hands rescue him from his terrible fate, and he slumps against Bruce’s chest while his chest heaves in a failing attempt to get his breath back.

“You shouldn’t wander off like that, Tony, honestly... look at you... lie down, that’s it.”

His plan, apparently, was implemented too late; he’s hit the wall and there’s no convincing the Avengers that he’s fine now. He lies down. He’s actually kinda helpless against it, really, what with the ox-dep and fever all tumbling down on him.

“Hey, Steve? ... yeah. The sun room. Great.”

“...’m sorry, Brucie, I’ll just go to bed, ‘s fine.”

“Yeah, you will,” Bruce says, firmly, but not meanly. Tony suddenly feels like never getting up again, but he will because he has to go to bed before he can’t move anymore.

Tony pushes at Natasha’s blanket, worried that it’s getting dirty on the floor, but stuck in its folds all the same. “Jus’... gimmi a minute, I’ll...”

“Down, Tony. Steve’s coming to help, and you can have some expectorant and an antipyretic, and then you’ll sleep through the worst.”

Tony ‘downs’, mainly because he can’t untangle himself while Bruce is pressing down on him like that, and frowns up at his fellow scientist.

This whole day has been very confusing.

Bruce helps him through another coughing fit while he’s lying there uselessly, but then Steve turns up, and just _picks him up_. “What the hell, Stebe... ‘m a grown man, wh’t ‘s this...”

Steve humms down at him, frowning, and just carries him off. Tony’s stuck inside this stupid blanket, and he’s starting to think Natasha bought it because of it’s ninja restraining skills, because his free hand is holding a wadge of cleanish tissues that he _needs_ , but he can’t free the other one at _all_ and Steve’s chest is right there, so he sure as hell has motivation.

“Lie still, Tony, you’re just wasting your energy,” Steve chides, bumping him gently. It’s a gesture he’s seen people do to _babies_ , and while it feels good and make’s Steve’s grip feel _infinitely_ more secure, he doesn’t like it.

“Put me down, Stebe... ‘m fine, what is this...”

Steve does, in fact, put him down. Into his bed.

Bruce has pulled back the covers, and there are _pills_ on the nightstand, and Tony senses a trap; he’s not getting out of this bed for a _while_. Steve plunks him down unceremoniously, and steal’s Natasha’s blanket. The traitorous thing will unravel for _Steve,_ of course it will, leaving Tony in slightly gross, sweaty suit pants and dress shirt. The fabric chills instantly and Tony gripes, pawing at the buttons and not caring at all that Bruce and Steve are still right there until they start helping out, which he is all for.

His skin feels like its going to crawl right off his body and where there’s the sticky, disgusting funk of fever sweat, its an order of magnitude worse.

So he strips in front of his team mates. Or possibly, they strip him, because his coordination is at the half-pint of vodka stage and his fumbling hands get pressed to the bedsheets more often than they actually manage to undo anything.

To add .. okay, not insult, because this _is_ Steve they’re talking about, but _something_ to injury, they tuck him in. With about a thousand pillows propping him up, in just his underwear.

He’s starting to feel more cogent already, having enough oxygen will do that to a brain, and he’s pretty sure he can pretend the flush of embarrassment is from the fever. Anyone else with a cough would be fine, it’s just him, with his reduced lung capacity, and his _stupid_ arc reactor. And his _stupid, idiotic_ plan. He should have locked himself in the workshop, after all.

Bruce sits on the edge of the bed, with his bottle of cough syrup and two pills, and pours Tony a dose, which Tony glares at.

“Expectorant. I know what that means; you can’t fool me, Brucie,” Tony grumbles, pulling his head back into the pillows and away from the spoon.

Bruce gives him the eyebrow. the one that means he’s being stupid, and Tony frowns, because he’s _not._

“Look, you can either drown in mucus, and have catastrophic coughing, or you can cough a little bit, more often.”

“...don’t use ‘simple words’ on me, Dr. Banner. I know your tricks,” Tony grumbles reaching out for Bruce’s wrist and accepting the medication. At least it tastes alright. And _works._..

Tony coughs at the fumes that creep up his throat afterwards, and scowls, taking the handkerchief Steve offers with an irritable snapp of the wirst.

“What’re-- you still doing here, Steve? I’mma cough all over you,” he grumbles, flapping the handkerchief at it’s owner threateningly. Bruce, rude, interfering Bruce, pushes his hand down, and thrusts the paracetamol at his face.

Steve uses, sorry, _abuses_ his powers of persuasion far too often, Tony muses rather snidely as he _stares_ at Tony.

Tony glares back until a mercifully light, but nonetheless painful, bout of coughs tears him away, grumbling and swearing. At least falling back into his pillows is less risky than falling from standing.

“Just take them, Tony, it’ll keep the inflammation down.”

Tony takes them. Or, better put, Bruce puts them in his mouth, and he swallows, along with half the glass of water Bruce holds for him. Tony, stubbornly, holds his wrist the entire time, and pulls it away once he’s had enough.

He feels woozy, and his brain itches like his skin did earlier. He wants to get up, and theres a design just on the other side of his mind that’ll come rushing out if he makes it to the workshop. Bruce likes science; it’ll be fine.

He doesn’t even make it to the edge of the bed before Steve sits on him.

So, maybe ‘sits’ is an exaggeration, but Steve’s _really strong_ , and there’s no way Tony’s going anywhere with Steve’s hand planted on his chest like that. He flinches into the bed, whining, because his ribs are really tender, now, and Steve’s touch feels lovely on his bare skin, but _horrible_ just underneath, where the pins attach.

“Okay, okay, sorry, hush, Tony...”

Tony hushes, trying not to cough again, and clearing his throat as gently as he can. Bruce’s rough, cooler fingers trace the struts through the skin of his chest, finding the ends, where they touch bone and checking for ... stuff. Tony’s not sure what, inflammation maybe.

Bruce’s gentle, and it hurts, and it’s reassuring, and invasive and scary, and Steve holds his hands for it, so Tony doesn’t try and escape. He lies there, propped up, with someone’s hands on the reactor, and _doesn’t try to escape_.

He maybe cries, a little bit, and squeezes Steve’s hands too hard, but it’s Bruce and you have to trust Bruce; it’s a law of nature.

Something cold in a _really good_ way presses down around the reactor and Tony relaxes, face going slack.

“--should have--... --sooner than--...”

“Easy, Steve, he--... --not new. There’s no risk, it’s just--...”

“ _Just painful?!_ ”

Steve’s yelling, or... not yelling, but whispering like he wants to be yelling. Tony’s still got one of his hands, so he squeezes it and gives it a tug.

“Steve, Stevie, babe, s-sugar crunch, honey bunch...”

“Yeah, Tony, we’re still here, sorry...”

The angry muttering has stopped; Tony is pleased. Steve and Bruce are too far away, though. And where are the assassins? He frowns, looking into dark corners of the room, and trying to lean over the side of the bed, to check underneath. Steve stops him though, and pets his sweaty hair off his face. It feels _realy good..._

“I’ll stay, if you want?” Steve asks, and Tony clings to his hand, because _yes, want_ , but Steve’s not talking to him, he’s asking Bruce.

“I have a feeling we’re both staying, Steve. Get comfortable.”

Yes. Tony approves of this.

He settles down, feeling smug about this turn of events; it wasn’t what he’d planned, but it’s apparently what he wants. He’s cool with that and decides he’ll pay them back with baked goods.

Like... cookies? Cookies can’t be that hard, right?

Mm... cookies... 


End file.
